


Calmative

by yeaka



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Anal Sex, Ficlet, M/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-05-01
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:20:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23954479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: The Inquisitor needs stress relief.
Relationships: Dorian Pavus/Male Trevelyan, Male Inquisitor/Dorian Pavus
Comments: 6
Kudos: 110





	Calmative

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own Dragon Age or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

He’s a good enough person not to rage at his allies, but not good enough to forgo feeling _rage_ in the first place—he’s sick of all their squabbles and conflicting advice, even more sick of the messy map littered with violent brawls, so _tired_ of fighting. The very idea of a _war council_ is depressing, even though he knows it’s a necessity, and he has to head it—has to try and solve everything all on his own with half his own people thinking he’s some sort of god and the other half hating his guts. It’s stressful, trying, and wears him down worse on some days than others. By the time the council ends, the Inquisitor’s at his wit’s end. 

He storms out of the war room without another word. Cullen steps out of his way, expression hard, and Cassandra calls, “Inquisitor—” as though to soothe him. But she doesn’t have what he wants. 

He mutters, “Not now,” and keeps marching. No one stops him. He walks quick and steady with his head down, trying to avoid catching any other eyes—he doesn’t have the energy for small talk. He can’t settle another minor dispute, or worse, pass judgment. He weaves through Skyhold like a horse on reins. Then he’s in the library, and two steps in, he’s calling, “Out. Everybody out.”

He’s calm, most of the time. Calm enough that everyone seems to instantly understand how grave this is in contrast. Six different people stop what they’re doing, turning to look at him. He raises his voice, not angry, just _stern_ , and orders: “Now.”

Just like that, they’re moving. One or two even bow on the way. They pour around him, quickly sweeping for the door, and Trevelyan can only assume the lower level’s clearing out too. Dorian straightens from his place by the rail, dark eyes flickering straight to him, and Trevelyan holds that gaze with purpose. Slowly, Dorian trails out after the others. 

Except when he passes Trevelyan, a hand reaches out to snatch his wrist. Dorian halts. Trevelyan clarifies, “Not you.”

Dorian lifts a brow. If this were the beginning, it’d be impossible to catch the barest hint of a grin, but Trevelyan’s gotten to know him just well enough to see the telltale glimmer. The door closes behind the last person. Trevelyan hears it but doesn’t turn around to check. 

He’s busy staring at Dorian—at Dorian’s gorgeous face and his pretty mouth, the rough cut of his chin and the slight dip in the middle of his lips. Dorian asks with that familiar teasing lilt of his, “Tough day at work?”

Trevelyan stalks forward. It forces Dorian to stumble back. Only a few steps, and Trevelyan’s got him backed up against the nearest shelf—two hands slam against the battered volumes, trapping Dorian between them. Dorian doesn’t look the least bit worried. 

There are probably words for this. A way to make Dorian understand. And for all his flippancy, Dorian probably _would_ understand, and he’d probably be all too willing to take some of that burden off the Inquisitor’s shoulders. Or at least to _listen_. Even that could help. But Trevelyan can’t find the words and instead slams his mouth into Dorian’s, hard enough that he hears Dorian smack against the bookshelf. Dorian grunts into his mouth but opens wide, and that’s the perfect invitation for Trevelyan’s tongue to snake inside. He presses in as close as he can, flattening his entire body against Dorian’s, eating Dorian up. He grinds his hips against Dorian’s crotch, and the next thing he knows, his hands are everywhere—he’s grabbing Dorian for dear life and feeling everything up. Dorian has such an _amazing_ body. He’s taut and hard but soft in all the right places—rippling with muscle and carved just right—it’s just a shame that he wears such thick fabric. Trevelyan squeezes right through it. He runs one hand down Dorian’s round ass and squeezes one cheek, the other hand ducking into the pouch at Dorian’s side. 

A bit of fumbling, and he finds it, without even having to tear his mouth away. When Dorian turns aside, Trevelyan just keeps mouthing at his cheek and throat. Trevelyan fumbles the cap off the vial while Dorian chuckles, “Now how did you know that was in there...?”

“Always so well prepared,” Trevelyan muffles against Dorian’s tanned skin, all praise. The cap clatters to the floor, and Trevelyan holds the vile between two fingers while the rest work at Dorian’s trousers—he has to lift up the tunic’s ends to push the rest down. Dorian arches into Trevelyan’s touch but doesn’t help. “Unless you have any spells that could do this...?”

Dorian laughs. That probably means _no_. Trevelyan thought as much. Although it would’ve been fantastic if Dorian had a way to stretch and wet himself at his lover’s whim. Trevelyan gets the fabric all the way down around Dorian’s thighs and takes a few seconds just to knead the taut flesh of Dorian’s perfect ass. 

Dorian’s hands spread across his back as he rubs over Dorian’s hole, wetting it with the oil. One finger in, and Dorian gasps, head tossing back, groaning as Trevelyan pushes into him. He can feel the puckered entrance fluttering wildly and _trying_ to relax. As impatient as he is, as desperate to get _inside_ Dorian’s pliant body, he waits until it’s lax enough to insert a second finger. By then it’s growing hard to keep hold of the empty vial, but Dorian snatches it away. Trevelyan’s not exactly sure what Dorian does with it—he’s too busy biting a bruise into Dorian’s neck and stretching his hole open. Maybe Dorian pocketed the vial for later use. Better than dropping it and leaving broken glass in the library. 

After three fingers, Dorian rasps, “Do hurry up, would you? At this rate I’ll have time to come up with that spell before you’re actually inside...”

Trevelyan punishes him with a fond nip and obliges. A bit more rustling, and Trevelyan’s out, ready—he grabs at Dorian’s thigh, but Dorian pulls out of his grip and shuffles around, facing the bookcase, bared ass pressing back into him. It’s tempting, except, “I want to see your face.”

Dorian agreeably turns around again, musing, “A harder position for this, but I suppose I understand—it’s a rather lovely face.”

“The loveliest,” Trevelyan half chuckles, half growls. Dorian’s beautiful, and he knows it. 

Dorian jumps, hands scrambling over his head for the shelf, holding on while Trevelyan pins him in place. His legs lock around Trevelyan’s middle, keeping him close. As soon as Trevelyan’s pushing inside, the position pays off—Dorian’s eyes roll back in his head, teeth biting into his bottom lip. His cheeks flush, lashes falling slowly closed. Trevelyan simply _stares_ as he pushes inside, bit by bit, and it’s hard to say which part is better: the tight, wet heat of Dorian’s cloying channel or the _lust_ painting Dorian’s handsome face. 

Then Trevelyan’s balls-deep, and he kisses Dorian’s so hard he almost gives himself whiplash. He keeps his chest tight against Dorian’s but draws his hips back just enough to slam in again—Dorian groans into his mouth. The Inquisitor sets a fast, hard, _brutal_ pace, pouring everything into Dorian’s wondrous body. It feels _incredible_. All the morning’s frustrations melt away, because all that matters is Dorian’s sweet ass and that it’s all _Trevelyan’s._

He pounds into it for as long as he can. He fucks Dorian over and over, each thrust more ruthless than the last, completely unforgiving, and Dorian doesn’t ask for any mercy. His thighs clench around Trevelyan’s sides and tremble against him, body squirming and practically convulsing but still taking every last thrust without complaint. In no time at all, Dorian’s kissing Trevelyan just as fiercely, around a plethora of moans and whines that set Trevelyan’s skin on fire. Dorian’s _so hot_. His channel’s stifling. He’s ridiculously tight. And he sounds absolutely _delicious_ : like he was made for this, just to warm his Inquisitor’s cock, and there’s absolutely nothing else he’d rather do. 

Trevelyan doesn’t want it to end. He doesn’t want to return to duty. He wants to fuck Dorian against the other shelf, over the writing-desk, in the plush red chair and right over the railing—against every surface in the library. He wants to drag Dorian’s sweaty, aching, fucked-raw body up to his chambers and do it all over again. But Dorian’s too good at it: Trevelyan doesn’t stand a chance. 

He has just enough wherewithal to reach down and pump Dorian’s cock between them a few times before coming. Then he’s just holding on, shielding the pulsing shaft from their slapping stomachs. He buries himself to the hilt in Dorian’s glorious ass and lets out one string after another. He fucks it all in as deep as he can. He’s reeling in pleasure and can barely hear Dorian purring, “Get me off, _Amatus_ ,” in his ear. 

Somehow, he listens. He strokes Dorian’s beautiful cock while he’s milking out his own orgasm. And then Dorian’s bursting in his palm, and he’s just trying to catch it all so it doesn’t ruin both their clothes. 

When it’s over, he collapses. He buckles right to his knees, and Dorian slides down the shelf with him, hissing as he’s dragged along the uneven books. Dorian’s thighs stay spread wide around his lap. A bit of the mess in his hand dribbles down onto Dorian’s rolled-up pants. After a bit of frantic panting, Dorian mutters, “I do hope there was no one listening down below.”

He doesn’t look particularly worried by the idea. Trevelyan plays along: “They should be so lucky to hear you.” 

Dorian laughs. It’s a beautiful, chiming noise that makes everything bad seem to disappear. Or maybe that was the mind-blowing sex. Suddenly, the Inquisitor feels almost sheepish. He hadn’t meant to be quite such an animal. He softens it by leaning in for a chaste peck on the cheek. He can _feel_ Dorian’s smile.

He’d meant to leave after. Go clean up, retreat somewhere alone, and sleep. Now he waits for Dorian to recover, and then they sneak off together.


End file.
